Starched Blue Inferno
by Clorinda
Summary: There's always something about him, that it not only makes my skin prickle, but my heart beat faster, louder, harder. And my chest aches when the last of his footfalls die into oblivion.' Sanosuke thinks about the flames of Saito Hajime. One shot


**Starched Blue Inferno **

**By **Clorinda

**Rated**: PG

**Category**: Drama

**Summary**: "There's always something about him, that it not only makes my skin prickle, but my heart beat faster, louder, harder. And my chest aches when the last of his footfalls die into oblivion." Sanosuke thinks about the flames of Saito Hajime. One-shot

* * *

He was not of this world. He simply couldn't have been. There was always something subtly unreal about him.

I have never come more than a foot from him. To tell the truth, I am afraid to approach him, afraid that he will appear no more than a fantasy.

But he cannot be a figment of my imagination. We have all seen him: me, Kenshin, Kaoru, Yahiko, Misao, Shishio. All those bruises from fighting him have not faded completely yet. My clothes still have flyway starched blue threads attached to them. I suppose he is real.

But it can really complicate matters. His being real means he is this alive, tangible person who is a part of my life. And I do not know if I should be friendly or hostile towards him.

I can tell by the way he talks to me that I am but another person he must put up with— nothing more, nothing less.

What I cannot tell, however, is what _I_ feel about _him_.

From the moment my eyes first fell on him, something about him sparked my interest. Something about the way he left his hair, how his tiger eyes seemed so deceptively unconcerned, the way he held his cigarette, that smirk of his eyes, so knowing, so superior.

I never figured out what it really was, but if I looked straight into his eyes, I always felt different. Stronger, prouder.

Maybe I felt how he felt.

He was an excellent swordsman, and an outstanding fighter. Yet, he still demanded a challenge from me. We both knew he could always get the upper hand, climb the next stairwell. He never bothered to glance again at weaker prey; he always wanted a combat with "Mr. Himura," so why did he want to fight me?

Our verbal conflicts never had much to do with anger or competition. Not even when we first met. It was something else. Something deeper.

Both of us, him and me, we don't have blood in our veins. There is only fire. A rapid fire spreading through us. That much I know.

I know he would never admit it, but that proud git is as impulsive as I am. Maybe even more than me. But while my fire is hot, burning, and untouchable, his fire has always been restrained below a barren layer of cold ice, allowing the orange-red tendrils to escape every now and then, sliding around every hand he grasps.

I pride myself on being the only one who truly understands him to a far extent.

I know that beneath the man's cool, faintly amused exterior, there lies not a misunderstood boy as many would love to fantasise, but a dragon.

A dragon with flames of poison, that slip underneath the victim's skin, snaking it's way up to the mind, and bending the will to it's control.

For you see, it is not the fighting skills that matter when he's around, but the few words that escape his lips. His speeches are short in length, but they will haunt the listener even after both the speaker and audience are six feet deep.

I know because I have suffered that way. Every sentence he has spoken to me, every biting comment, every criticism, they have all been drilled into me.

Drilled so deep that Captain Sagara's voice is drowned beneath its faintest echo.

It's probably his thousand faults, I suppose, but it's as likely as not. But there's always something about him, that it not only makes my skin prickle, but my heart beat faster, louder, harder. And my chest aches when the last of his footfalls die into oblivion.

"You wanted to talk, Sano?" he says carelessly. The cigarette is between those gloved fingers again, the smoke spiralling above one end, curling in the air, dancing to silent music. Perhaps he holds it out of habit more than anything else. With him, it is impossible for one to know.

And all guesses sound improbable.

My hands are shoved into my pockets, and I do not reply. All I can do is stare wordlessly at him. He calmly returns my gaze, the corner of his lips slightly turned up in a smirk he has trouble holding back.

"What's the matter?"

The way his eyebrow is arched, I can tell that he isn't in the least affected.

But then, what do I know? If pleasure and anger appear the same in his eyes, then why not concern and indifference?

He sighs. "Listen to me, Sanosuke. I don't have time to waste with selective mutes. Either you get to your point, or I leave."

I wonder silently _why_ I asked him to come here. What did I intend to tell him? What did I _have_ to tell him?

"You still owe me a second chance at a fight," I say at long last, devoid of all other options.

He laughs openly. "Very well. If that's how you choose to express how you feel, then so be it."

He pushes back his left leg in a attacker's stance. I can tell by the way he stands that the wounds he had from fighting Shishio's lackeys hasn't healed completely yet, properly even.

There is a steady look in his eyes, and I can almost imagine that those pupils will turn into slits any moment now.

And suddenly I'm terrified.

Terrified of what he can accomplish. This man — or is he a tiger? — has easily defeated me once before with absolute nonchalance. Even now, even if my right fist is more powerful, a little more effort might enable him to really kill me this time.

Instead of landing my blows on him, I feel like hitting myself. I am a fool to openly invite death like this.

He shows no mercy, because he knows no mercy. Something happened to him to mould him into a supreme killing machine with God-sent self-control. But if even the littlest thing can trigger his murderous reflexes, he will obey them.

Already he has begun to move, running towards me like a blur of blue, shifting from left to right and back to left again, white fists prominent.

I am rooted to the spot, not knowing how to react, which direction to take in my escape.

Not knowing how to fight him. Him who haunts me night and day alike.

"_Sano_!" someone calls.

It's Kaoru, come to rescue me from the pit I fell into with starkly opened eyes .

He comes to an abrupt halt, leaving me to marvel at his braking skills. It seems I am not the only one who has grown better. But I notice he has not gone very far from his initial point. My apprehension had exaggerated his movements.

And maybe, — it's just a glimmer of suspicion — but maybe, he was counting on an interruption so that his leg injuries wouldn't act up.

She is beckoning for me, mouthing "Important," over and over again. I simultaneously thank the heavens, and hope that no one is badly hurt. I mock salute my to-be angel of death, pressing my lips in a hopefully regretful look.

He simply smirks, takes a long drag from his cigarette, and flicks it away.

**—- End -—**


End file.
